The air is heavy with the lush perfume of lilac, a riot of pale purple blossoms bursting from spindly dark branches. An entire row of the unruly bushes runs along the back edge of the garden. Somewhere nearby a fire burns, a hazy drift of woodsmoke meandering across the countryside. Sherlock wrinkles his nose, detecting another scent — the sweet mellowness of freshly mown hay.
The farm is old, run down, but there’s still a beauty to the crumbing stone fence, overgrown garden, and rustic house. He scans the horizon, catching sight of stacked wooden boxes, some toppled over or sitting askew.
He hears John’s footsteps crunching in the gravel, then stopping as he stands by his side.
“What are those?” John nods out toward the grouping of boxes.
“Bee hives. Defunct now, clearly.” Sherlock’s mind wanders momentarily, imagining what the hives must have looked like once, painted a clean white, swarming with the hum of beating wings, flashes of black and gold darting among the trees and fields.
They’re both silent, drinking in the peace and quiet, breathing in the heady air. Some day, just maybe, he might like to find a place like this, solitary and with secret wild places to hunt berries or collect rare mosses. Maybe keep bees and spin golden honey. Maybe John will come and write a proper book of their adventures. Maybe they’ll wake in the same bed, facing east, the sunrise warming the feather comforter and their tangled feet. Maybe some day.
He can feel John’s gaze on his profile. Sherlock refocuses with an effort, squeezing his clasped hands together behind his back.
“Let’s see the body,” he says gruffly, pushing past John toward the barn.
John follows behind him for a moment, then lengthens his stride, matching Sherlock step for step.
